Vicious
by LittleZebragus
Summary: Another practice fic short story. May scare some readers.


Life is_ easy_ in a world of pokemon. You don't have to fight your own battles, and pokemon love their trainers despite being beaten by another party member before capture. Pokemon seem to shrug it off like it's nothing. Why should I even worry about a thing? The sun was out and my dodrio rested on the grass with his feathers puffed up. I didn't catch this one, he was given to me by a good friend of mine.

To this day, I had no idea why he named this dodrio "Turbine". It's an odd name, but I can't complain. Turbine was nicer to me than my other pokemon, yet people always stared at him when we'd walk by. Hey, I don't like keeping my pokemon cooped up in their pokeballs all the time, so why do people make a big fuss if I have one pokemon parade with me?

As I ate my sandwich, my mind raced as I thought about the hierarchy associated with this lifestyle. _We_ were on top, and _they_ were underneath. Other thoughts entered my head, but I can't recall them. I refused to swallow while looking at the content of my meal. I wondered if this mindset had sunk so deep into society to the point where we ate pokemon and didn't care. Maybe we didn't notice at first, but I don't doubt my theory.

If everyone else knew, they would be so disgusted. People think of pokemon as friends, not food. **Who** was I eating? How was this one raised and killed?  
I gagged, nearly choking on the chunk I swallowed. One of Turbine's heads turned to examine me, the _glint_ of those eyes reassured me I wasn't evil. If anything, he was just curious. I decided not to eat the rest of my sandwich, because puking wasn't on my "to do" list.

We did our stroll as usual, looking for a trainer or two to fight with. Turbine loved to fight, his enthusiasm was often so great that I had to seal him inside his pokeball to prevent overkill. As usual, everybody avoided us like the plague. But there was that one guy people hated even more. Gary Oak. I was determined to rub his own smugness in his face. Somebody has got to swipe that smirk off, anyway. Turbine's trilling caused great panic in the cheerleaders who followed Gary, they darted into every last crevice faster than my skitty on steroids.

"That's so not cool, but I guess that suits you well. _Lame_." He chimed.

"What you say about others says more about yourself!" I retorted. This was often very true in people.

Turbine lunged at him without attacking, Gary leapt backwards, almost jumping out of his skin. I split my sides as one of the cheerleaders rushed over to Gary. Next moment I saw her fly about ten feet in the air, thank goodness the ditz crashed in a bush. I'd be in a lot of trouble if she was seriously injured. The others scuttled around Turbine like ants to check their groupmate. Gasps flowed from the windows high above, exciting the nervous dodrio. Turbine towered over Gary, shaking with uncertainty.

"Hey, Turbine! That's not how we usually fight, buddy!" I snickered, hoping it would lighten the situation. "You can stop, now." He remained there, viciously staring down at Gary, who shook violently under Turbine's talons. Before I could use the pokeball to retrieve him, someone's swellow swept down and knocked Turbine off his balance. Seeing him skid the ground that far made my heart skip a few beats.

Gary took the opportunity to bolt, leaving his parade behind. I ran towards Turbine, his fluffy body heaved with laboured breaths. All six eyes were glassy and fogged with the same eternal aggression. My inner self collapsed when I saw the gash staining his body feathers. Warm beads of tears cascaded from my eyes as people watched with little expression in their faces. Those psychopaths! I bet they were cheering for his death.

As if he felt my pain, Turbine trilled and got back up. The swellow poised on one of the buildings reared up to swoop again. Turbine picked me up in one beak and tossed me out of the way. I felt a shock radiate from my gut to my head as I hit the ground. I chose to remain still in fear that getting up would result in crippling pain. Seconds later, I realize I actually was in paralyzing pain. The exposed skin that was hit stung the most, I feared I'd get tetanus. The shrill sounds of bird pokemon fighting hurt my ears.

When I came to, the nurses sighed how much they were relieved. I don't recall anything after the curdling noises. The happy faces painted all over the walls didn't cheer me up, but it did give me something to count when the nurses leave. They stayed and told me in the most unreactive tone, "We had to send your dodrio away."

"We're sorry, kid. It had to be sent somewhere else, that thing's too dangerous to own. Luckily, you blacked out before you saw it shred that swellow."

"They can level down dodrio, but the process is inhumane and illegal." _Levelling **down** pokemon?_ How is that possible? I don't want to know. Somehow, I feel responsible, and that's more than I need to know. I was wrapped in bandages from head to toe, yet the cuts weren't as painful as my insides being swallowed up by my heart. It's more like a _void_ than anything else.

My injuries weren't serious and I was out within the week. The scars were still there, they begged questions from people. What my new deformity begs me to ask why Turbine pushed me out of the way. I wasn't the target people wanted dead. Everything pointed to the fact I was the one looking for the fight, did Turbine become an outlet of my frustrations against his will? Pokemon sort of have free will, they disobey their trainers sometimes. To this day, I have no idea how badges influence pokemon. I'm only eleven and I haven't beaten every gym leader.

Mother couldn't help but cry at the sight of me, she didn't understand how everything happened. I got into bed every night, but had little sleep from the stinging pain in my skin. Tonight was worse than normal. In fact, I nearly puked when I saw pus seething from most of my cuts. Other sores opened with sickening pops revealing more pus and my own pink flesh. I bolted up and ran to the washroom, slamming the door. I managed to grab some toilet paper before my knees gave in, and I was left weeping on the floor. There was pus everywhere, it was starting to mix with my blood to create a frothing pink mess.

I thought I was going to die. No, I knew I was going to! I couldn't take it anymore, so I shouted "**I promise** I'll make things_ better_ for my pokemon! I'll even go vegetarian if I have to! Spare me! Let me go, I'm not guilty! Everyone does it, so why punish only me?"

And then, nothing. My wounds burned and the pus hissed. That was all there was to keep me company as I lay here, until I heard a slow, low pitched trill rattle my ear. There were bird feet covered in pus standing in front of me, I look up and see a gash across a body of feathers that were half plucked. I dreaded looking up even further, the right head was nothing more than a stump of the neck cleanly cut. The left head was dead, but sloppily sewn back to the neck and the eyes were fogged. The middle head was alive, peering down at me with piercing stoicism.

"Turbine? How...?" I muttered, tears blurred my sad vision. Dodrio have three brains and three sets of organs, with only one brain working, the two other systems were just dead sacks hanging inside. The pus flow slowed, but blood was constant.

"I called your name every day," a deep voice echoed. It wasn't as stoic as Turbine's expression, but it lead me to believe there was good in him. His words cut me down to size, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I deserved it.

"What did they do to you?" I wailed. "What are they going to do to you after?" I struggled to sit up, I shook as though my nerves were wired. I felt my heart jump around my ribcage, seeking for a way out.

"To that hardened mind, ignorance is kind. Your best friend was a horrible person."

"What do you mean?" My sores still popped and leaked fluids.

"He never told you," Turbine sat down and let his only living head rest on the pus and blood flooded floor, "I was born, they told me I was a useless runner and would end up being somebody's lunch meat. They also told me I was a GMO, and that meant I was supposed to be stronger. Your friend rescued me, or at least I thought it was a rescue until he'd hurt me."

"Please, no more! I've heard enough! Why is this happening to me?"

"I didn't want that swellow to hurt you."

"But **YOU** were the target!"

"You would have gotten into trouble. But in the end, it's all my fault."

"You were born and raised for aggression, it's not your fault!" My voice wobbled.

"Guilty skin feels no kindness. Relax, and everything will be better." There shone a persuasive glint in his eyes. "I couldn't mend myself, and then it got to me." Those were his final words as his eyelids drew like curtains over that glint. What did he mean by "it"? Sorrow consumed me upon knowing I'll never have the answer. I'm left on my own, nobody else understood me quite as well as Turbine or my supposed "best friend". Nothing will ever be okay again, if it is, "fine" would come too late.

I woke up in the same hospital room the next day. The scars remained, but they weren't as red as the night before.

"Stop hyperventilating, sweetie." I heard my mom's distant voice. "You finally came around after hours of being unconscious."

"Isn't this my second time here?" I stammered.

"No, honey. Everything's going to be okay."

"What happened to Turbine, mom? Did they haul him away?"

"Please stop hyperventilating, everything's okay. I have no clue what they did with him. Somebody you used to know very well heard about the incident and told me to give you this envelope."

"It better be good news." I thought as I tore open the envelope and poured the contents into my lap. They were all pictures of Turbine, I wished to see him in the flesh. One showed him standing guard outside a door, with all three heads looking in different directions. I glanced at the back to see if there was anything written on it, but it was blank. There was nothing written on the back of any of the photos. They must be hiding some awful thing from me. I know something's wrong. My mom smiled, she must be thinking they were a thoughtful gift. No, this is **not** a gift. _Not after what I've seen._ Just no!

Later that day, I told my mom what happened to me as she was putting the photo in a frame. She said that my week of recovery and pus leakage was just a rancid nightmare. It was nearly nightfall, as I could count the first stars that came out. As I passed by the photograph, a cold hand held my spine. I look back and examine the photo. My jaw nearly hit the floor as I felt another cold hand weigh on my shoulder. The photo resembled Turbine as he appeared in my nightmare. My fingertips slid across the image, it was real alright.

I meddled with the frame and removed the photo. There was a message on the back of it which I dreaded to read.

_"I won't be fine again. I can't."_

I mulled over this before I realized he was trying to tell me he was dead, and dead things don't feel. Turbine couldn't be dead! He was too furious to live and too stubborn to die. Maybe this was his last request? I've never felt this alone before. Before I do anything, I think I should do what you told me to do earlier.

"Relax." I repeated to myself, and placed the photo back in the frame.


End file.
